


The Fledgling Year

by SchmoNSushi



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SchmoNSushi/pseuds/SchmoNSushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cor's mission is to explore Archenland and learn about his people. Aravis's mission is to find him a suitable bride. Their only obstacles? Each other. And, of course, the occasional rogue dragon. Crossposted to Fanfiction.Net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Part One_

_Chapter One_

Aravis Tarkheena was in the possession of a dark secret.

The people of the kingdom of Archenland generally tended to consider their future king the finest warrior in all the land. She, however, knew the truth behind the matter; she _alone_ , because while he would certainly never trip over his own two feet in front of his father's council, Prince Cor had a definite propensity to make spectacular feats of gracelessness whenever he was out of the immediate view of Very Distinguished Persons.

Of course, she was not the only one who had raised their eyebrows when, in a moment of distractedness, he once let a corner of the map he was holding dip into the flame of a nearby candle; or when he caught his toe on the edge of a carpet and knocked a laden serving table crashing to the floor; or when he slipped while climbing a muddy bank and brought half of King Lune's entourage rolling back down the slope with him. But Lune and his councilors liked to think that it was just a brief phase Cor was going through, and would certainly pass away after some time.

That considered, it had been a good ten months since Aravis had last seen Cor, and now she and her travel-dusted retinue were once again nearing the wide, green courtyard of the palace at Anvard. In a very few moments, Aravis would learn if Lune's prediction had come true or not: had Cor grown out of his clumsiness, or was he the same boy who fell up the stairs on his way to bid her farewell?

The sounds of approaching horses did not slow the calculated movements of two helmeted swordsmen that sparred on the green lawn. They made quite an interesting pair: a short and careful one and a taller, sturdy-limbed one with quick feet. (Aravis felt rather sorry for the smaller one; the bigger man seemed to be giving him quite the beating.) As for King Lune, fat and considerably more grey-bearded than Aravis remembered him being, he was settled into a cushy chair near the bubbling central fountain and watching the goings-on with animation and boyish glee, and Prince Corin (his face dirty and streaked with sweat) lounged on the ground nearby.

"Welcome back, milady Aravis," said a footman over the sounds of clashing steel, taking the reins of Aravis' horse.

"Thank you." Aravis accepted his hand and came down from the saddle, landing on the cobbled ground with a puff of yellow dust. "It  _is_  good to be back in Anvard. Though, I cannot say I missed this all this dreadful racket—tell me, who is fighting?"

"It is His Majesty Prince Cor and the Lord Darin," said the man, "They have been practicing their art all morning."

"Quite," said Aravis, thinking of all the irritated courtiers inside the castle with their fingers stuffed into their ears. "Well, take her away, and be sure to brush her well."

"Aye, milady."

As the footman led her mare away, Aravis flicked a hand to her retinue—a gaggle of giggly maids—and they followed him without much of a fuss. (Aravis had to wonder why  _now_ , of all times, they would cease complaining; all the way to Calavar and back it had been too hot, too cold, too sunny, too dark, too boring, too busy, too  _Calormene._  She had been quite ready to run them all off a cliff somewhere.) But now she was finally back in Archenland, and she would only have to see the maids on occasion.

So she went towards Corin and Lune with that happy thought in mind. "I trust I find my lords well?" she said, kneeling in the grass at Lune's right hand.

"Indeed, indeed, Lady Aravis," said Lune. "But look upon Prince Cor! Has he not improved greatly?"

Aravis was quite used to the king's preoccupied manner of addressing her. However, she was not as impressed as he was at Cor's supposed skill; the youth didn't seem to have grown a single inch since she left, and he struggled to lift his shield as the taller Lord Darin hammered upon it. "Not that I can tell," she answered.

"Not that you can tell?" Lune blithered, finally turning to face her completely. "My lady Aravis, your time in Calormen has quite cobwebbed your brain!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, though, he paused, tweaked his beard, and then let out a great 'ha!' of laughter. "Why, Lady Aravis! Here you sit, still covered in the dust of Calormen, and I quite overlook your return! Oh, come here, my dear, and give me a kiss. That's a good girl. Your journey from Calavar was safe, I hope?"

"All too much so, my lord," Aravis responded, patting his fat hand. "I began to fear dying of boredom along the way."

"Nevertheless, I am glad you brought Lord Noll with you. Times are uneasy these days…"

"Aye. He was a great comfort to my maids, and Lady Noll especially enjoyed having him accompany her."

"Good, good. Corin, my son—get off your back and greet Aravis! It has been nigh a year since you last spoke to her."

Corin gave Lune a 'but Father, I want to watch the fight!' look, but sat up the rest of the way and nodded his head towards Aravis. "How d'you do, Aravis?"

"Well. And you?"

"Well. How was Calormen?"

"Oh," Aravis sighed, "hot, dusty, and stuffy, as usual."

"That's why Archenland is better," Corin said as if that settled it, and sat back.

Aravis rolled her eyes.

Soon after, Cor found himself backed against a stone support with Lord Darin's sword at his neck. Lune gave a shout, Aravis blushed for Cor's sake ( _a crown prince who can't hold his own against an aging lord? How embarrassing_ ), and Corin jumped to his feet. Lord Darin stepped away from Cor, letting him come slowly away from the wall, and then gave a whoop, leapt in the air, and then promptly lost his balance and went clattering to the ground.

It was then that Aravis realized it had been  _Darin_  backed against the wall.

"I don't know what's happened," said the real Lord Darin mournfully as he pulled his helmet off to reveal a very red and sweaty face. "I remember a time I could have held off a youth His Majesty's age all morning."

"Ah, old friend," said Lune, rising to greet the man. "You performed excellently, as usual. You must remember that you are not as young as you used to be."

"Bah. I am still sprightly."

The men continued to discuss the match, but Aravis was now concentrating on Cor. With the help of Corin, he was scrambling to his feet and pulling off his helm, saying, "This blasted armor. Knocks me off balance every time I move."

"I would argue it is your own feet that do that," Aravis retorted, standing up and going over to them. "Most impressive."

"Aravis!" said Cor, freezing in place. "You're back!"

"Hello to you, as well."

"Well,  _hello_. Now that that's out of the way, what did you think? I mean, besides the falling bit."

Aravis eyed him. It was not exactly in her nature to hand out compliments—he needed no help in getting a big head—but the fact remained that she was indeed pleasantly surprised at his new-found skill. "Well," she said slowly, "I rather thought that you were Lord Darin, and Lord Darin was you. You've grown quite a lot."

"Father said I hit my stride this winter," said Cor proudly, drawing himself up. "See, Corin? I told you."

Corin grumbled. "I haven't got it with me."

"I want it by tonight."

"Or what? You'll knock me down?"

"Or I'll fall on you."

"Have you been betting again?" Aravis said. "You know your father—"

"It's only a small one," Cor interrupted. "Five gilds. That's all. I bet him that I would be taller than you by the time you returned. And am I, Corin?"

"Aye," Corin said begrudgingly, and then added in an undertone, "it's about time."

Despite herself, Aravis felt a bit pleased that she had not been entirely forgotten while she was gone. "Well, fine, then. But don't let Lune get wind of—"

"Get wind of what, my children?"

Lune had come up behind Aravis while she was speaking, and all three of them gave a little start. "Nothing, Father," Cor and Corin said in unison.

The old king may have been jolly, but he certainly was no fool, and he eyed them all with a piercing gaze. "I should hope not, for it certainly would be a shame to have to lock you all in your chambers again."

"Aye, Father."

"Good. Now, Aravis, dear…tell me, are you much exhausted from your journey? I know it was a lengthy one."

"Not terribly, sire," she answered. "But I am in need of a decent bath and change of clothes, I think."

"She smells like horse," said Corin.

"Shut up," said Cor.

"Quite understandable," Lune told her. "I shall have the bath tended to right away. But you know what this week is, of course?"

How could she forget? It was Cor and Corin's nineteenth birthday in just a few days, and, as Cor would be taking the throne on the eve of their twentieth, it was their last chance to celebrate a birthday together as twin princes of Archenland. (Apparently, as Cor's letters had told her, there were to be dances and feasts in abundance.) But, feeling a bit impish, she answered innocently, "No, what is it?"

The looks on the boys' faces were well worth it.

"It is that of my sons' birthday," Lune answered with a wink. "There is to be a special meeting of my council tonight after sup to discuss what that will entail for these rascals, and we had hoped you would arrive in time to attend."

"It would be an honor, I am sure," Aravis said. "I will be glad to."

"Very good. Now Cor, Corin, I think you ought to bathe, too. You smell worse than horses. Like perspiring horses. Or dead perspiring horses. Dead perspiring horses that have been lying around for days."

"But Father," Corin began.

"Oh, never mind that, Corin," Cor said. "Aravis, come upstairs with me. There's something I want to show you."

"'Please,'" said Aravis.

"Please."

"All right."

Cor gave his shield, sword, and helm to a nearby footman and led her from the courtyard into the cool, bright corridors of the palace itself. He walked quickly and with a purpose, and Aravis was proud to see him confidently step over thresholds and slightly upturned carpets.

"How was Calavar?" he asked her, sounding genuinely interested.

Aravis sighed. "Oh, all right, I suppose. My father's wedding went on as planned."

"And?"

"And, he and his new wife are happy enough together. They were yet getting along when I left, and that had been two months since the union."

"How does your brother like his new stepmother?"

"He never particularly liked Darya to begin with, and Parvin has already given him his own pony and convinced our father to send him to Tashbaan for school, so he does seem to like her better."

Cor slowed his paces as they approached his chamber door. "But you are glad to be back in Anvard, aye?"

"Aye," she told him archly. "I was treated far too nicely in Calormen."

Grinning, Cor pushed his door open (it always tended to stick) and ushered her in. As much as their master had changed, Aravis had been expecting Cor's living quarters to have altered somewhat, as well; but nay, they were as cluttered as they had been when she left. Stacks of parchment littered the fine mahogany desk by the window, books sat neglected besides the bookcase, and halfway-melted candles sat on every level surface.

Nevertheless, it was familiar, and Aravis began to relax.

"It's in my bedchamber," Cor said. "Wait here a moment."

He ducked into the next room, and Aravis caught a glimpse of his bed and a floor littered with discarded clothes before he pushed the door closed behind him.

"Aye, my master," she sniffed.

"I can hear you," Cor called.

While she waited for him to return triumphant, Aravis took it upon herself to begin picking papers up off the ground and placing truant books back in their places on the shelves. However the young man managed to keep his chambers so impossibly messy was beyond her—didn't he ever get lost in the piles of clutter? His bookish habits already lent a sort of busyness to the room (every available inch of wall space was filled either by windows, bookcases, seating, or vast tapestries depicting great moments in Archenlandian history) and the extra mess probably didn't help his two left feet.

At last, Cor came back, hefting in one hand a large leather-bound volume. "I found it—the nasty bugger was hiding beneath my bed."

"What is it?" Aravis asked, curious despite herself.

He motioned for her to sit on the bench beneath the west window, and she did so after removing a stack of maps. "I had meant to give it to you for your eighteenth birthday," he said, sitting beside her and placing the heavy book in her hands, "but then you left for Calormen and I couldn't. But that wasn't entirely bad—gave me a chance to finish decently."

Aravis traced the cool leather with her fingertips. "But what is it?"

"It's a book."

"I see that. But what of?"

"That's what reading is for."

Arching an eyebrow at him, Aravis slipped her fingers under the cover and opened it to a page somewhere near the middle. "'… _of a lady who had likewise an only daughter, for the sake of her riches, had a mind to marry her, and though she was old, ugly, hook-nosed, and humpbacked, yet all this could not deter him from doing so. Her daughter was a yellow dowdy, full of envy and ill-nature; and, in short, was much of the same mould as her mother_.' Why, Cor…is this your handwriting?"

He beamed. "Aye. You told me once you enjoyed our fairy tales, so I wrote them all down for you."

Aravis flipped through the pages, admiring the thick, confident writing and colorful paintwork. The details were not nearly as fine as the books she was accustomed to reading in her father's house, of course, but the fact that it had been she who taught Cor how to read and write in the first place made the simple volume infinitely more precious to her. "Thank you, Cor," she said sincerely, looking up into his face for the first time since her arrival. "It's lovely—really."

"Corin said it was nonsense."

"You ought to know better than to listen to Corin. Remember when he told you it was fashionable to wear your hose pulled up to your chest?"

"You always insist upon reminding me of that," Cor said darkly. "I, for one, wish to forget that incident entirely."

"That I will never allow," Aravis replied, closing the book. "You walked about with your tunic tucked in and your yellow trousers heaved up to your shoulders all day, and no one said anything."

Cor leapt to his feet. "At any rate, there  _is_  something I wish to ask you before the meeting with my father's council tonight."

"I won't tutor young Lady Anwyn, so stop asking."

"Did I say anything about tutoring?"

"…No."

"Then pray let me continue."

"Aye,  _master._ "

"Fine, then. You remember me telling you about that blasted…oh, what's it called…nestling year, or some ought?"

"The fledgling year," Aravis corrected. "Aye, you wrote me about it. Is Lune still asking that you go?"

"Aye," Cor said with a sigh. "And I suppose I must."

"You sounded rather enthusiastic about it in your letter. 'A whole year of observation and study!' I believe you called it. 'A real chance to learn about my people!'"

"Well, aye," Cor began uncomfortably.

"You haven't lost your nerve, have you?"

He ground his heel into the stone floor, stretching with some apparent discomfort. "Not exactly. Well, in a manner of speaking, no. Oh, don't give me that look! …Very well, I am a bit apprehensive now. But just a bit."

"Whatever for, Cor?" Aravis cried. "A whole year of adventure, and without your brother! What more could you ask for?"

"But you know as well as I the state of the kingdom," Cor replied mournfully. "Ever since the Narnian kings and queens left, the whole North has been in an uproar. The Telmarines are growing rapidly in the west, Narnia is disintegrating without proper rule, and if we lose that our biggest ally, we might have to fear the resurgence of the western tribes. Father says that if the situation does not improve, we shall have to assume control of Cair Paravel. The common people sense this—they are growing uncomfortable. And I am to spend a year among them?"

Cor's agitation was contagious, but Aravis got up and placed the tip of her index finger at the base of his throat. "You are going to stop bleating like a petulant sheep, first and foremost," she said. "And secondly, you have nothing to worry about—we are not Narnia, and you will be traveling under assumed names. No one need know you are Prince Cor of Anvard. Simply pick the right retinue, and you shall scarcely know it before the year is over and you return."

He sighed, and his throat fluttered against her finger. "Well, you've brought me to my next question. What if I were to ask you to be part of the retinue? What would you say?"

Aravis paused. She had spent the last two weeks in the saddle, and not even another week would pass before she would climb into it again, not to leave it for a year. "I wonder if my legs can withstand it so soon."

"Aye," Cor mused. "I hadn't thought of that. But…you will think about it, at least? I rather missed you while you were in Calavar, and besides—I need companions with varied skill, and you wield the finest mind I know of."

Aravis took her hand away from his throat. "Very well. I shall think about it."

As Cor nodded, pleased, there came a knock at his door, and a few menservants bearing buckets of steaming water entered.

"Pardon me, sire," said a footman, bowing low, "but your bath is being prepared."

"I ought to go see to my own," Aravis told Cor. "Enjoy yours."

"Be thinking about it, Aravis," Cor replied. "Really."

"Aye, aye."

Aravis curtsied, Cor bowed, and then she let herself out. Cor had indeed given her a great deal to think about, but as it is very hard to think when there is sand in every crevice of your body, she hurried to her old chambers and the awaiting hot bath, leaving the more difficult topics to consider another time.


	2. Chapter Two

Supper that night in the palace's high-ceilinged great hall was early and light, consisting mainly of thick broths and nutty breads. Aravis found this simple meal just what her over-satiated palate needed; every bite she had eaten in Calormen was heavy, greasy, rich, and occasionally feathery. (She had never quite gotten the hang of eating peacock correctly.)

After Lune, Cor, Corin, and the last aged lord had retired from the table, the lesser nobility began to excuse themselves and drift out of the room. As it was a balmy, cloudless spring night, stuffy buildings could not contain the Archenlanders, and Aravis knew they would be gathering together on lawns and rooftops to watch the stars appear one by one.

As much as she wanted to join them, duty called, and so Aravis took her leave of her ladies-in-waiting and turned her feet towards Lune's throne room. She had scarcely gotten five paces down the corridor, however, when a hand closed over her mouth and drew her quickly into a shadowy alcove, pressing her against a warm body. At first, her heart stopped with the sickest kind of fear, but then she recognized the irritating snicker that was brushing against her ear.

"Cor of Archenland," Aravis burst out, tearing his hand away from her mouth, "I swear on my mother's grave that I shall kill you someday! I'll—I'll push you off the battlements or…or trip you down the stairs. Then you'll learn!"

Cor burst out in laughter, sagging against the wall and going quite red. "Oh, Aravis!" he gasped. "Your face! You looked like a startled owlet!"

Aravis was highly displeased. She was the kind of person who likes being stirred up, but only if they are the one controlling the stirring—this kind of excitement was not one she appreciated. To demonstrate to Cor her extreme vexation, then, she reached over and tightly gripped the soft flesh between his shoulder and neck. Immediately his knees crumpled, and he barely bit back a howl of pain.

"Don't do that to me again," she said with a sniff, and released him.

"Don't do that to me again," he answered crossly, massaging his shoulder as he scrambled back to his feet. "It's highly unpleasant."

"So is being grabbed from behind. You know how I despise that awful practice."

"At least it doesn't cause you any pain."

"Oh, aye?" Aravis retorted

"Aye!"

She clapped a hand over his mouth, just to show him.

An involuntary yelp of pain escaped Cor's lips, but he reached out and tweaked the tender flesh above Aravis' elbow until she took her hand away.

"Oh! That hurts, Cor!"

"As it ought!"

Swiftly, she caught the underside of his chin with the palm of her hand and thumped that hollow head of his against the stone wall. "There!"

"Don't touch that, Aravis!" he cried, rubbing the back of his skull. "I need it!"

"And I need my elbow! Don't touch that, either!"

Cor furrowed his brow and stuck out his jaw. Aravis recognized that look—she had seen it so often before—and it always meant something terrible was about to happen. More out of habit than anything else, then, she whirled around and began running as fast as her aching legs would carry her. Cor had always been swift, but she was also much nimbler than he, and she had never feared being caught.

But it is sometimes amazing what a difference ten months will make, and soon Aravis felt a hand close upon her skirt. She and Cor began to stumble to a halt, bumping into each other and a wall in the process, and it all ended with a step too far—"Oh, bugger"—and a loud crash. The noise was sobering, and, for a moment, all they could do was stare at the remains of the fine porcelain vase that now lay scattered on the stone floor.

"That was your fault."

For once, Cor did not argue. A moment later, a door slammed open, and the lords Dar and Rill came rushing out, hands upon the hilts of their jeweled swords as though the crash had really been the sudden invasion of an enemy army. "I say, what is the meaning of all this commotion?" Lord Rill asked. "I heard—" He stopped when he saw the shattered vase.

"Well, I—I can explain," Cor began, taking a step forward.

"As well you should, boy I regretfully call my heir."

Oh, bother, Lune had come out. The fat old king stood with spread legs and crossed arms, looking very displeased indeed at the misfortune that had befallen the decoration; the heat of that furious gaze made Aravis very uneasy, despite the fact that it was aimed solely at Cor. (How was he not sizzling into the floor?)

"I'm sorry, Father—"

"'Sorry'?" Lune blustered, going red. "'Sorry,' Cor? That jar—that heirloom—was centuries old! Tell the palace chroniclers that you broke their prize possession and see if they'll accept your 'sorry.'"

Cor's shoulders bowed. "Aye, Father."

This was simply too much—indeed, Cor was an insufferably clumsy fool, but Aravis thought that he had been punished quite enough lately for that fact. Drawing her shoulders back, then, she cleared her throat and said with much (false) remorse, "Begging your pardon, sire, but it was I who broke the vase. Please do not be angry at Cor—he was only trying to protect my honor. I shall make the necessary reparations to the chroniclers, you have my word."

Obviously, this bit of information about his son's honor soothed Lune's rising ill temper, for he stroked his grey beard and grumbled, "Very well. I apologize sincerely, my son."

"Think nothing of it, Father."

"And as for you, Lady Aravis, I also extend my regrets—as unfortunate as they are, such things occur from time to time. Now, come, both of you. This little incident has rather upset me, and nothing relieves discomfort like a bit of planning."

Giving Cor and Aravis rather knowing looks, Dar and Rill followed Lune back into the throne room. Before Aravis could do the same, Cor caught her arm. "Protecting your honor, eh?" he said with a grin.

"Don't get any ideas," she said archly.

"Fine, fine. Really, though—I thank you. Father never gets quite as angry at you as he does at me or Corin."

Tossing her head, Aravis looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "Perhaps it is because he knows I am much more observant than you."

"Oh, aye?" he said doubtfully.

"Aye! That vase was a gift from Ardeshir Tarkhaan last year—perhaps the ghastliest piece of pottery I have ever seen. Hardly an heirloom."

With that, Aravis hurried into the throne room, where Lune sat waiting, ten councilors seated on both sides of the throne. Cor rushed after her, his fair brow furrowed and a question forming on his lips, but Aravis shushed him and moved to stand out of the way.

"I call this meeting into order," said Lune with a particularly stern look at Cor and Aravis, "now that our most important guest has graced us with his presence."

"I apologize, my lord Father," said Cor with a good deal more confidence as he took the indicated seat facing Lune's throne. "I assure you, it won't happen again."

Lune grunted. "Well. I assume you know why you are here?" He motioned at the court record-keeper, who had begun scribbling madly.

"Aye, my liege. As my nineteenth birthday approaches, it is your duty to oversee the successful planning of my year-long venture into true Archenland."

"Very good."

Cor caught Aravis's gaze, and she slowly crossed her eyes until he had to look away for fear of laughing aloud.

Clearly quite oblivious to this little exchange, Lune settled back into his throne. "Lord Rodrin, I entreat you to read aloud the list of duties His Highness and accompanying entourage are expected to fulfill during their travels."

Lord Rodrin stood up with a piece of parchment clasped in his wrinkled hands. "Aye, my lieges."

A scrivener hurried forward and gave Cor a stack of his own parchment and a pencil, and Cor had barely grasped the items and placed them upon his knee before Lord Rodrin cleared his throat.

"'As Crown Prince of Archenland, His Highness Cor's first and foremost duty is to engage himself in the common culture of his people.'"

"Right," said Cor, writing rapidly. "Common culture."

"'In relation, His Highness should make detailed notes of every encounter throughout his year of discovery: natural, personal, cultural, and historical. These notes should be of the highest clarity, so as to afford education to later readers.

"'His Highness understands that he should shrink from no task or encounter, unless it unnecessarily threatens the well-being of his entourage or appears gratuitously dangerous.'"

"No gratuitous danger," Cor repeated dutifully.

"'His Highness agrees to send to Anvard detailed tidings on a weekly basis for review by the royal council.

"'His Highness understands that, should he return prior to the date of May 23 in the next year, his crown is forfeit until he completes the full year. Thus speaks the law.'"

"A whole year, understood," said Cor.

"'It is understood that, while His Highness exercises supreme authority over his entourage, the members have been chosen so as to offer the finest wisdom and provide a strong model for His Highness's future council.'"

"Of course," Cor said.

"'Each member of the entourage shall be outfitted appropriately by the Crown, but His Highness will be afforded only limited funds to address any needs the outfit may encounter throughout the course of the year. This shall teach His Highness the value of money and set up a firm foundation for a responsible rule, as well as provide an impetus for humble reliance upon common means of gaining assets.'"

"Limited funds," Cor said with a bird-like nod.

"'His Highness also understands that, as an ideal ruler is one with a counterpart, he is to search among the upper commonfolk and nobility in order to find himself a suitable queen.'"

"Good, goo—"

Aravis realized what Lord Rodrin had said at the same time Cor did. While the room did not necessarily reel around her, she was nonetheless startled—a bride? Cor? The thought was simply impossible! He was too young, too freckled, too Cor!

"Let Lord Rodrin finish, my son," Lune said.

Cor, who had stood up at this proclamation, slowly sat back down.

Lord Rodrin cleared his throat again. "'He must, with the assistance of a trusted advisor, carefully screen each candidate for a queen's ideal attributes: wisdom, character, gentleness, handsomeness, a careful manner, ability to bear children, and love for Archenland. The women who meet these standards are to leave their homes and join the entourage, whereupon on His Highness's return to Anvard, the royal council shall make the final choice.'"

Oh, that just topped it all off, Aravis thought miserably. First, Cor was being forced into marriage (and she was not any more ready for that idea than he was), and then secondly, he could not even choose for himself who the bride would be. Things were just as they had been in Calormen!

"Do you understand these terms, my son?" Lune asked.

"Aye, Father," Cor said dully.

"Good. Now, have you selected your entourage?"

"Aye."

"Then let us hear and see them."

Slowly, Cor stood and folded his arms behind his back, his shoulders going broader and chest puffing out. "Lord Darrin the Strongarm."

The handsome but greying lord stood and bowed to Lune and Cor. "My lieges."

"Lord Nim the Mapmaker."

Lord Nim, a man about Lune's age with big eyes and small hands, bowed. "My lieges."

"Sir Borran the Voyagemaker."

Aravis stared at the long-bearded knight as he bowed: she had only heard rumors about this elusive man's exploits, but if they were even remotely true, he knew more about Archenland's topography than anyone else alive.

"Lord Rhys the Herbalist."

Rhys, a twinkling-eyed old man, winked broadly at Aravis even as he said reverentially, "My lieges."

Cor cleared his throat. "I have also selected Romith the cook and Dor the smithy to accompany us."

Lune and the remaining sixteen councilors nodded with pleased expressions—Prince Cor had done a fine job of picking an entourage, Aravis thought with no small amount of pride. All the men were fine fighters, but Nim knew his directions, Darrin could best nearly any man in a swordfight, Borran knew the ways of the wilds, Rhys could heal any injury, Romith would cook well and heartily, and Dor would keep the corps' weapons sharp and ready.

"Is there anyone else, my son?" Lune asked, tapping the armrests of his throne.

"Aye, my lord Father."

"Who is it?"

At this moment, Corin, who had up until this point been sitting quietly in a corner, leapt to his feet and crowed, "I, Father! I shall go! For the good of Archenland, let me go!"

"Sit down and quiet yourself, Corin," Lune said, rubbing his forehead. "You're to stay here as discussed—I can't have both my heirs gallivanting about in the wide world beyond my range of discipline."

Corin collapsed back into his chair with a pout.

Lune let out a sigh and shifted in his throne. "Cor. Who is this last person?"

Cor's fingers tightened behind his back. "Lady Aravis, Father."

Aravis had wondered at first when he would announce this; now, watching the uncertain reactions of the council, she wondered what they would say. Nevertheless, she stood up and bowed low. "My lieges."

Lune's eyes twinkled, even as his council muttered around him. "I see. And what does Lady Aravis have to offer to the entourage?"

"She is honest," Cor said, and the council's murmurings were punctuated by chuckles.

"As I hope the others are," Lune laughed. "What else?"

"She is an apt rider and will easily keep pace with us."

Lune began to lose the twinkle in his eye; Aravis wondered if perhaps Cor was performing poorer on this portion of the test than he'd hoped. "I do not doubt her ladyship's able horsemanship. I am simply wondering what exactly she would bring to the collection of skills that is your retinue."

"I…I…"

The council did not look approving. Suddenly, Aravis began to doubt her political weight—it hadn't crossed her mind when Cor had first asked if she would accompany him that she might be denied the privilege! Well, consider that the last time she embroidered slippers for the councilors, those turncoats!

"I am inclined to bid her stay," said Lune, heeding the dissatisfaction of his council.

Cor dropped his hands from behind his back, the tips of his ears turning pink. "I cannot have that, Father! I…I trust Lady Aravis above anyone else. If she is not at my right hand, then—then I refuse to go. So…there."

The council erupted in muttering again, but Lune raised his hand. "Enough, my friends. That is all I wished to hear from my son. Step forward, Lady Aravis, and we shall decide jointly what your duties are to be."

Cor blinked rather stupidly, but then grinned with relief. Aravis let out the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding. "Aye, my liege," she said a bit giddily, leaving her place by the wall to stand abreast with Cor.

The lords and Lune looked down at her thoughtfully. "I have an idea," Lord Rill said at last.

"Then speak it, trusted advisor."

"Her ladyship is well-versed in the art of writing, is she not?"

"I am," Aravis answered.

"Then I see no reason why she cannot assist His Highness with record-keeping."

"I would like nothing better," said Cor. "As is well known, I lack greatly in that area."

Lune nodded with pleasure. "Good. Very good. And I have a proposition, as well. Lady Aravis, as the only woman in the entourage—oh, that reminds me. Would you prefer to bring your ladies-in-waiting?"

"No!" she cried. When the council gave her startled looks, though, she tried to amend her answer, but then she realized there was really no way to say "If those hens come along, I will sell them all to the slavers" kindly, so she folded her hands and calmly amended, "No, thank you."

"Good—that shall relieve you for better duty. Now, then. I propose that you not only assist my royal son in record-keeping, but in a service much more important to the well-being of Archenland…do you feel yourself up to the task?"

Aravis drew herself up, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, the old man's words warming her heart. Of course she was up to the task! "Aye, my liege. For Archenland."

Lune folded his hands across his broad stomach. "Very good. Then I ask that you employ your good sense and what you know of ruling to assist my son as he tests each candidate. You understand what it takes to run a castle, so the women you approve must be capable of doing that work and much more."

She knew she needed to agree, happily and immediately, but the words "Aye, my liege" simply would not come. If she had known her duty would be to choose the minx that would be her replacement, she never would have agreed to it! But of course, she was much too involved now, and everyone knows that changing your mind in front of a king is the worst sort of indiscretion. So she swallowed hard, smiled painfully, and said, "Of course, sire."

The council nodded. "Excellent," Lune said merrily. "Excellent! Well, gentlemen, I believe that concludes this little congregation. Thank you for your time."

Bowing and nodding and talking amongst themselves, the council began to filter from the chamber; under the cover of their noise, Cor turned to Aravis and whispered, "Father told me I would have to start thinking about a queen—but I never thought it would be so soon. What am I to do?"

Aravis could only shake her head.

He sighed. "My father calls you. See you in the morning then?"

"Aye. Goodnight."

"Goodnight." Cor hesitated a moment, chewed rather childishly on his lower lip, then nodded, turned, and followed the council from the chamber, joining up with Corin who then proceeded to elbow him in the ribs.

"Come, come, child," said Lune, beckoning to Aravis as she paused to watch the exchange.

Aravis lifted the hem of her skirt and stepped up onto the dais where Lune's throne sat. "You wanted to speak with me, sire?"

"Aye, aye," he said gruffly, taking one of her hands in his fat, bejeweled ones. "Aravis, dear, you know I think of you as a daughter."

"Oh, I do not doubt your kindness, my liege," Aravis said, touched despite herself.

"Mm, mm. Then you will not take offense at what I am about to ask, quite bluntly. Are you…quite sure you wish to accompany my son?"

Aravis sat down by Lune's feet. "I am," she said sincerely. "It shall be a grand adventure."

Lune drummed his fingers on his knees. "And yet you seemed…rather displeased when I mentioned his marrying."

Heat leapt to Aravis' face, and she opened her mouth to deny any forthcoming uncomfortable questioning, but Lune took her hand again, patting it awkwardly. "Have no fear, young one. I am quite confident you shall find a husband among my courtiers very quickly, and you will soon be much too busy with your own household to take care of mine. That is why I wish my sons to marry, so that when you do, you shall not feel obliged to us."

This was not quite what Aravis had expected. Swallowing her previous rationalizations, she allowed herself to smile at Lune. "You are kind and thoughtful, my liege."

"Bah." Lune sat back in his throne, taking out a handkerchief and mopping his red face. "Of course, if you decide not to marry right away, do not think for a moment that we shall lure you outside Anvard and then lock the gates. Your duties perhaps may change, but your importance to the court will not."

Well, this, at least, was good news. "You are too kind," Aravis said sincerely.

Lune grunted, turning a bit pink in the ears (just like Cor). "Stop flattering me," he said with a hint of bashfulness. "All I wished you to know was that your place here is safe. Now begone, ere I decide to change my mind."

"Aye, my liege," Aravis said with a curtsy, hiding her smile. "I bid you goodnight."

"Mm. And to you, child. Rest well."

"I shall."


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

_"Psst. Aravis."_

Aravis barely heard the whisper above the sound of the crowds in the Great Hall and the rustling of her own gown, but she paused to listen, holding perfectly still. "Who is it?" she murmured.

"It's Cor."

She turned around to see him peering at her, dressed very nicely in a fine blue tunic and yellow hose, a blazing torch in one hand.  "Cor!  What are you doing out here—you should be in the Great Hall, and you know it."

Cor looked pained. "But I don't want to be."

Aravis scoffed indignantly. "It's your own birthday celebration, and you don't want to be there?"

"You know how I hate crowds—Archenlanders take parties far too seriously." He threw back his head as if he'd suddenly realized something.  "But I am at no more fault that you, Lady Brings-Books-To-Formal-Affairs!"

She had forgotten about the book clasped in her hands, and she reddened, hiding it behind her back. "Never you mind that—it's not _my_ birthday party I'm late to."

"So you admit you're late."

"No later than you."

Cor rolled his eyes. "Come on, then—it'll do no good to stand here in the corridors where we'll certainly be found. If we plan to play truants, we had better do it out of the way."

As tempting as the offer was—oh! to avoid four hours of polite conversing and brainless smiling!—Aravis had to hesitate.  "We'll have to make an appearance sooner or later."

"I'd prefer later." He held out a hand to her and motioned with his head.  "Come on—I know just the place to start."

"You'll be the death of me someday, I'm certain of it," Aravis said, putting her hand in his despite it all. 

"And yet you follow willingly."  Cor raised his eyebrows with polite curiosity.  "Interesting."

Aravis's cheeks heated up yet again, but she tossed her head at him and said, "If you continue to stand there any longer, I shall be forced to join the party."

"Fine, fine. Come along, and watch your step. It gets a bit chancy here."

She was about to ask where, but Cor squeezed her hand and pulled her down a narrow, dark corridor as he hoisted the torch above his head.  "The servants' quarters?" she said dubiously, pulling her elbows in closer to her body.

"Not quite—this is something you haven't seen before."

"Is that even possible?" she mused.

Cor stopped and gave her an arch look.  "You may be lady of Anvard, Aravis, but I am its prince.  I'd like to think I know a bit more about it than you."

Aravis sniffed.

"If you're done doubting me, then…"

"Very well—I'll be silent."

Though he clearly did not believe her, Cor gave her the torch, then hooked his fingers around a small ring in the wall, pulled, and out from the wall came a heavy wooden door. "See?" he said proudly as a wall of damp, musty air hit them.

"What _is_ it?" Aravis asked, holding the torch in the doorway.

Cor took it from her. "Patience, my pet. Now, do be careful here—the steps are slippery, and the last thing we need is for you to give away our truanting by falling and breaking your head."

"If it's tripping you're afraid of, you'd best hold on to _my_ hand," Aravis told him.

"I think I can walk down a flight of stairs, thank thee kindly."

"We'll see about that. But do be careful where you step—we are both dressed nicely, and I think it would be rather a giveaway if we returned to the Great Hall covered in dust and mud."

"Excellent point," said Cor, going forth into the darkness, pulling her along after him. "In that case…don't touch the walls."

The advice came a bit too late, and Aravis's hand came away from the cold stones covered in something wet and slimy.  Shuddering, she wiped it off on a handkerchief from her pocket.  "Where are we going?"

"Down into the very bowels of Anvard."

Well, _that_ much was obvious from the stale air.  "Yes, but _where_?"

"By the lion, Aravis, do you ever stop asking questions?"

"If I don't ask questions, they don't get answered!"

He heaved a great, exaggerated sigh.  "We're going down into the catacombs.  The tombs of the old Archenlandian kings."

Aravis's curiosity was piqued, despite all her intentions to be as uninterested as possible. "I've never known they were buried here."

"Well, yes you do—the main entrance is down in the cellars.  Father says there used to be corridors leading from the catacombs out to the hillside, but they were all collapsed either naturally or purposefully. Safety, you see. Ah, here we are."

The two of them came to the bottom of the staircase, and the dim light of Cor's torch illuminated a long, dark stone passageway, pitted intermittently with great, gaping holes. "This is where all lesser royals are buried," Cor said, taking a dead torch from the wall and lighting it with his own.

"Where will you be laid someday?" Aravis asked.

He gave her the other torch. "In here. Watch yourself."

As they stepped over a threshold into a chamber, Aravis caught a glimpse of what was in the dark holes-in-the-wall: moldering bones, covered with nothing but a few scraps of cloth and perhaps a shield.

 _"This_ is where I am to be buried," Cor announced, indicating a particularly large hole in the chamber wall. 

Aravis peered into it. "It's rather…unremarkable."

"I know. But this is where my father is to be buried, and there's a spot next to mine for my queen (whomever she will be).  And look—here is the body of my grandfather, King Sol, and my grandmother, Queen Firta."

All that Aravis could see of these Cor's ancestors was covered in rich purple mantles.  "How far back in your line does this room go?"

"All the way from my great-great-great-grandfather's great-grandfather," Cor said, "to my mother."

"Your mother?" Aravis asked.

He nodded. "Queen Agara."

His tone was cool and calm, and it made Aravis's stomach clench with pity.  Though her own mother had died early, she had had the privilege of being with her until the very end—Cor, on the other hand, had no memory of his mother whatsoever.  Clasping her book to her chest, she approached the shrouded figure he had indicated and bowed slightly to the great lady whose place she had taken.  "How long ago—"

"Fifteen years," Cor said.  "Corin was four. Say, what book did you bring?"

Aravis did not mind changing the subject either.  "The one you gave me."

"You like it, then?"

"Oh, of course I do!—but it shall be ages before I can finish them all."

"It took me ages to copy them all down," he agreed with a laugh.

"Well, then, you know all the endings!  Don't breathe a word of them to me."

Cor laughed again, and the sound was pleasant in that oppressive setting.  "You expected me to absorb all the information that passed between my eyes and my pen?  I can scarce even remember the titles of the stories I wrote down."

"What a bad Archenlander you are, indeed."

"I suppose you'll have to read them to me."

The way he said the phrase made Aravis realize that he'd been planning it that way the whole time. "You are quite the demanding prince, you know," she said, handing him her torch and ignoring his grin.  "Just one story, and then we must go back up to join the realm of the living."

"Agreed."

Aravis looked about the dusty room for a suitable place to sit.  Next to the entrance to the chamber was a low table, presumably for storing candles during the traditional mourning period, and she settled down onto that, her right shoulder nestled in the corner of two damp stone walls. "What would you like to hear?" she asked Cor as he sat down next to her.

"Anything," said Cor eagerly.

Aravis closed her eyes, slipped her finger between the smooth pages of the book, and opened it up. "'The Tale of the Rose-Tree'," she read.

 " _'_ _There was once upon a time a good man who had two children: a girl by a first wife, and a boy by the second. The girl was as white as milk, and her lips were like cherries. Her hair was like golden silk, and it hung to the ground. Her brother loved her dearly, but her wicked stepmother hated her. “Child,” said the stepmother one day, “go to the grocer’s shop and buy me a pound of candles.” She gave her the money; and the little girl went, bought the candles, and started on her return. There was a stile to cross. She put down the candles whilst she got over the stile. Up came a dog and ran off with the candles._

_"'She went back to the grocer’s, and she got a second bunch. She came to the stile, set down the candles, and proceeded to climb over. Up came the dog and ran off with the candles._

_"'She went again to the grocer’s, and she got a third bunch; and just the same happened. Then she came to her stepmother crying, for she had spent all the money and had lost three bunches of candles._

_"'The stepmother was angry, but she pretended not to mind the loss. She said to the child: “Come, lay your head on my lap that I may comb your hair.” So the little one laid her head in the woman’s lap, who proceeded to comb the yellow silken hair. And when she combed the hair fell over her knees, and rolled right down to the ground._

_"'Then the stepmother hated her more for the beauty of her hair; so she said to her, “I cannot part your hair on my knee, fetch a billet of wood.” So she fetched it. Then said the stepmother, “I cannot part your hair with a comb, fetch me an axe.” So she fetched it._

_"'“Now,” said the wicked woman, “lay your head down on the billet whilst I part your hair.”_

_"'Well! She laid down her little golden head without fear; and whist! down came the axe, and it was off. So the mother wiped the axe and laughed.'"_

"By the lion!" Cor said.

Aravis shook her head and continued. _"'Then she took the heart and liver of the little girl, and she stewed them and brought them into the house for supper. The husband tasted them and shook his head. He said they tasted very strangely.'"_

Cor choked.  "I should think so! Oh, what a horrible story!"

"If you want me to continue it," Aravis said, "hush your mouth."

He fell silent.

_"'She gave some to the little boy, but he would not eat. She tried to force him, but he refused, and ran out into the garden, and took up his little sister, and put her in a box, and buried the box under a rose-tree; and every day he went to the tree and wept, till his tears ran down on the box._

_"'One day the rose-tree flowered. It was spring, and there among the flowers was a white bird; and it sang, and sang, and sang like an angel out of heaven. Away it flew, and it went to a cobbler’s shop, and perched itself on a tree hard by; and thus it sang,_

_"'“My wicked mother slew me,_

_"'My dear father ate me,_

_"'My little brother whom I love_

_"'Sits below, and I sing above_

_"'Stick, stock, stone dead.”_

_"'“Sing again that beautiful song,” asked the shoemaker._

_"'“If you will first give me those little red shoes you are making.”_

_"'The cobbler gave the shoes, and the bird sang the song; then flew to a tree in front of a watchmaker’s, and sang:_

_"'“My wicked mother slew me,_

_"'My dear father ate me,_

_"'My little brother whom I love_

_"'Sits below, and I sing above_

_"'Stick, stock, stone dead.”_

_"'“Oh, the beautiful song! Sing it again, sweet bird,” asked the watchmaker._

_"'“If you will give me first that gold watch and chain in your hand.”_

_"'The jeweler gave the watch and chain. The bird took it in one foot, the shoes in the other, and, after having repeated the song, flew away to where three millers were picking a millstone. The bird perched on a tree and sang:_

_"'“My wicked mother slew me,_

_"'My dear father ate me,_

_"'My little brother whom I love_

_"'Sits below, and I sing above_

_"'Stick, stock, stone dead.”_

_"'Then one of the men put down his tool and looked up from his work._

_"'“Stock!”_

_"'Then the second miller’s man laid aside his tool and looked up._

_"'“Stone!”_

_"'Then the third miller’s man laid down his tool and looked up,_

_"'“Dead!”_

_"'_ _Then all three cried out with one voice: “Oh, what a beautiful song! Sing it, sweet bird, again.”_

_"'“If you will put the millstone round my neck,” said the bird._

_"'The men did what the bird wanted and away to the tree it flew with the millstone round its neck, the red shoes in one foot, and the gold watch and chain in the other. It sang the song and then flew home. It rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house, and the stepmother said: “It thunders.” Then the little boy ran out to see the thunder, and down dropped the red shoes at his feet. It rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house once more, and the stepmother said again: “It thunders.” Then the father ran out and down fell the chain about his neck._

_"'In ran father and son, laughing and saying, “See, what fine things the thunder has brought us!” Then the bird rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house a third time; and the stepmother said: “It thunders again, perhaps the thunder has brought something for me,” and she ran out; but the moment she stepped outside the door, down fell the millstone on her head; and so she died.'"_

After a moment of rather stunned silence, Aravis shut the book soundly.  "What a frightful tale."

"Quite," said Cor with a shiver. "I shall never read that one to my children someday, that is for certain."

"I agree wholeheartedly—what if their mother should die, and you take a new queen?  They shall get ideas about dropping rocks on her head."

Cor laughed, and then stifled the sound. "What a terrible thing to say in a tomb!"

Aravis had to muffle her own giggle. "But it would be an interesting addition, don't you think?  'Here lies Queen Iscula, wife of King Cor, dead of a rock.'"

"'Iscula'?  I promise you, I shall never marry an 'Iscula'."

"I'll wager that you do."

"Oh, really?  Fine, then—ten gilds if I marry an 'Iscula'."

"Ten gilds."  Aravis reached over, and they clasped forearms like two old lords.

After another moment of pleasant silence, Cor shifted on the cold stone seat and rested his shoulder against hers.  "I'm glad you agreed to come along with us," he said blithely.

"Oh?"

"Well, sure—I _did_ miss you while you were away."

His words left a warm glow in the pit of Aravis's stomach, and she very briefly put her hand over his.  "I'm glad you don't detest me so much."

Cor sighed, stretching his long legs out. "I suppose we ought to go back up to the 'realm of the living,' as you so aptly put it."

Neither of them moved.

Slyly, Aravis slipped her finger between the pages of the book and pulled it open.  "'The Well of the World's End.'  Sounds interesting…"

"One more story couldn't hurt," Cor said.

Aravis smiled.


End file.
